The Metamorphs

When she and I in clowning coltish forms
Full spun with laughter, every atom splayed
Went spitting ecstacy; our foaming tongues
Trod home together leaning side by side
Collapsed into platonic beds of sleep
‘Cross our flesh would creep a blighted smut
So restless squirmed as dawn began to drip
Not every night, but every other night

Not every night, but every other night
The buried sunsets rise again, again
Through broken vessel eyes, through waking drought
Hold hands and ache for sleep and cringe and groan.
The world is cheap, we have our games of dice
And now and then we’ll lose and end up stung
We play at things, personas yoked and spliced
Dissolved in morning light – the metamorphs.


D.P. Laker 
daniellaker@hotmail.co.uk